"Well," she said thoughtfully, "it wasn't such a little bird, and it
wasn't exactly news to me. After all, I'd seen your braking jets in the
ionosphere and heard the cavitation rumble when you were settling into
denser atmosphere in your orbit. But, anyway, here's what my birdie
told me: 'A thing with sun-fire at both ends has come down out of the
sky two flights from here. Now a flock of two-legged beasts from it are
attacking the plants. We don't understand!'" Her face relaxed into a
disconcerting smile. "They couldn't understand why you were so angry
with the grass and the trees!"
"Extremely funny," he said gravely. "It just happens to be meaningless,
also."
"Don't you see? They can communicate ideas!"
"Fine," he nodded. "What of it?"
"But--but that means they're intelligent. Too intelligent to be called
'animals'!"
* * * * *
He shook his head. "On Terra only one animal developed communications
to a high degree. But we long ago decided that some other animals were
fairly intelligent, for all that they didn't appear to speak among
themselves. On many other worlds--and I can name you a score I've
visited--lots of so-called 'animals', apart from the intelligences we
dealt with, had developed fairly complex methods of communications that
would put the old Terran elephants and ants to shame. That still didn't
make them what we called 'people'."
Her eyes were hot with scorn. "I know that! If you'd lived with the
Thisbeans as long as I have you'd understand. Why--"
"Now, look," said Pritchard with rising asperity, "we have satisfactory
means of determining intelligence. If your 'people' are as you claim
they're in no danger. But are you going to claim there are no killers
here? They're what we're after, intelligent or not. And there are
killers on every world, Miss Boyce."
She shook her head in despair at his stupidity. "There are no killers
here, Mr. Pritchard. There are no killers anywhere on any world. Only
variant life forms trying to live and eat, eating only to live. If we
help them to find food, and guide their impulses...."
Pritchard gave up. The argument was futile. It struck him that the girl
was mad. The horror of the attack on the Survey camp, followed by years
of isolation from her kind, had left her in a hopelessly deranged state.
And a little plan took shape in his mind.
"That's all very fine," he said, cutting across her words, "but let
me show you something that will prove to you we are not here to kill
indiscriminately."
He turned to McManus. "Let's have your little pet, Tom." McManus raised
his eyebrows, but fumbled the button of his breast pocket flap loose
and pulled out the wriggling, six-legged infant rodent. Pritchard took
it and held it out toward the girl.
"Here, Miss Boyce. My friend found this. He didn't bite its head off
first thing. Now we'll turn it over to you for safekeeping."
"Aw," growled McManus.
"Quiet," Pritchard growled back at him. He lifted the wriggling little
beast and it squeaked. "I guess I'd better not toss it."
The eyes of Cornelia Boyce were large and glowing with maternal pity.
She dropped lightly to the ground and advanced, holding out her hand.
Pritchard pulled back the hand with the little wriggler in it and his
other shot forward to grip the girl's wrist.
She gasped and bent backward, striving to wrench loose. Her strength
was such that Pritchard, turning to hand the cub back to McManus,
almost lost his balance.
"Stop it," she cried. "You don't know what--"
Her lips moved for another second, but the words were lost in the
sudden tumult that erupted about them. The jungle exploded, almost
seemed to come alive at their very feet. Dimly-seen shapes came
lurching and crashing toward them from every side, clambering and
trampling and swinging from branch to branch. Here and there a tree
cracked, splintered and fell.
The men whipped out their snappers and backed against each other, eyes
rolling nervously in grim set faces. The girl frantically twisted out
of Pritchard's fingers and stuck two fingers in her mouth.
A piercing, two-noted whistle stabbed through the mounting din. It
stabbed again, and the uproar subsided into a confused rustling and
shuffling. Silence fell across the dust-charged air.
All about, in the jungle surrounding the head of the path the
scouting party had hacked, the vegetation barely concealed a
shoulder-to-shoulder wall of hulking beasts, while smaller animals and
what looked like maned gorillas crouched or stood along the bending
branches. Tusks protruded from drooling jaws and hundreds of eyes
blazed forth steadily.
"No shooting, no shooting!" Pritchard was bellowing. "She has them
under control, boys. Hold your fire." Then he took a deep breath and
turned toward Cornelia Boyce. She had backed off to a safe distance
from him, her eyes twin pools of green contempt.
"My people." She bowed ironically. "At your service."
Pritchard grinned tautly. "You win. Of course, my intentions were only
of the best. I thought you ought to come back to Terra for a little
observation and examination, but--" he waved lightly "--let's skip it."
"You were lucky that I was able to stop them," she said. "Next time I
might not be able to in time. Now if you're wise you'll just take your
little ship and go home."
"Why, certainly, certainly." He bowed. "In the meantime it was a
pleasure to have met you, Miss Boyce."
"I'm sure," she replied coldly. She lifted her head, and from her lips
suddenly poured an astonishing babble, a mixture of coughing, grunting
and chirping. There began to be movement in the brush, and some of the
things there began lurching and crashing off.
"Where are they going?" Pritchard strove for a casual tone.
"I'm deploying them along your trail," she said with equal calm. "They
will escort you out of this jungle and report to me when you re-enter
the ship."
"And you were really talking to them?"